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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25253146">Little Red and the Devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites'>whenshewrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Beta Derek Hale, Beta Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Derek Hale is a Failwolf, Derek Hale is a Mess, Druid Alan Deaton, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad Derek Hale, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Werewolves, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spark Claudia Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Leaves Beacon Hills, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:47:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25253146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski was a Spark for hire; until he got called back to Beacon Hills, that is.</p><p>Everything went downhill from there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>340</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stiles Stilinski considered himself a Spark for hire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, in the current day and age, that wasn’t something he could go around telling people. He couldn’t hand out business cards or put his face on a bus stop bench. Most people would think he was crazy. Because most people got to go through their lives blissfully unaware of the real world around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of the supernatural world around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But all things considered, Stiles is a Spark for hire. If anyone else asked, he’d say he did the jobs that no one else would. No one else could. He’d make the person look at him with a whole new perspective as they questioned everything they ever knew about the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he hadn’t had a job in a few months, to be honest. But Stiles was an optimist and something was bound to come soon, he figured. He couldn’t be on the outs forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles,” a sharp female voice crooned, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Nice to see you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles reached the front of the coffee line with a wide grin and a wink. “Of course it is, Cora. The usual, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coming right up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barista opposite him wasn’t human. Stiles knew that. He could hear her all too quick heartbeats and see the way her eyes changed colors in the right light. The first time he’d asked, she’d pretended not to understand. The second time, she’d tracked him to his apartment and tried to rip out his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So yeah, she wasn’t human. But Stiles knew that omega werewolves liked to keep to themselves and generally, they were harmless. And if they weren’t well… that’s where his job came into play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People like Cora just didn’t like others knowing their secrets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles, on the other hand, prided himself with knowing secrets; one and many. It was his job, after all. Because what use was a Spark if they didn’t understand the supernatural world around them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving to the second counter, Stiles tapped his fingers in rhythm to the Star Wars opening theme, cracking his neck from side to side. He’d forgotten to take his medication that morning and things were moving a little too fast for him to keep up. The busy cafe around him was a little too blurry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caffeine was probably the last thing Stiles needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then again, it was exactly what he wanted. And Stiles had always been terrible at separating ‘want’ from ‘need’. Plus, he was basically an adult now. He could make his own decisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or something like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora came back over and slid a steaming hot mocha across the counter. Stiles took it with a grin, inhaling the deliciously warm smell. In response to his moan, the barista’s sharp smile widened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh the house, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously? You’re too good to me, Cors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just consider yourself in my debt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t I already owe your for like, five other drinks?”</span>
</p><p><span>“You do,” Cora said, her smile turning even more feral as her eyes took on a golden gleam. “Consider yourself even more</span> <span>in my debt than before.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Stiles’s jaw dropped but she only turned away with a wink, and all he could do was clamp his mouth closed again, running a hand through his hair. “Damned werewolves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf’s faint chuckle proved she could still hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving across the room with a sigh, Stiles plopped into the first empty chair he could find, digging his laptop out of his bag. He hadn’t been on the internet in a few days due to sleeping too much and being productive too little. But he’d been trying to recover from his last job; the current source of income he was still trying to survive off of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had thirty-five unread emails. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’s last job had taken him to a small village in Bolivia, where there had been a creature going around and killing young women. It turned out to just be a fanatic with a fetish for making innocents scream, but Stiles had taken him out anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At certain points, the line between monster and human blurred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scrolled through his email, mentally checking off what was junk, what was spam, and what might actually prove to be a solid job. Everything else was pretty boring. Though, right when Stiles was sure it was going to be another unproductive day, his finger froze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes locked on a very familiar name at the bottom of his screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A name from his childhood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alan Deaton had been the first person to see Stiles’s connection to his Spark. Though, despite it all, it had still taken Stiles’s mother’s death and his father nearly sending him to military school before Stiles had accepted that fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without Deaton, he probably would’ve been off a lot worse. In fact, he probably would be in jail right now or at least living in the basement of his childhood home. If his dad hadn’t had enough and kicked him out by now, that is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad was a good man. But even he had his limits— and Stiles had always known how to push them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hovered his mouse over the email before cautiously clicking it open. It was from Deaton, alright. The message was short, quick, and quite obviously very urgent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton never contacted him unless something was wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been a while, I know. But a lot has changed since you’ve been home and you know I wouldn’t be in contact unless it was necessary. Things are happening and people are going missing. The police think it’s animal attacks, but you and I both know better. We could use your help. Call back or send an email. Or don’t reply— and I’ll know your answer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Deaton</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles read it and then read it again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Who the hell was we? The last time he had checked, Deaton had been the only one from Beacon Hills who knew about the supernatural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what Stiles had thought anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He licked his lips and studied the message again. He hadn’t been home in… was it four years now? Stiles had graduated early with Deaton’s promise to recommend him to a program for… well, people like him. And after his mother’s death, Stiles had been more than ready to take it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three years of training and a year of taking jobs for quick cash later, and Stiles still hadn’t been home since he was a fifteen-year-old graduating at the top of his class. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t know if he could even still call it home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t realize he wasn’t holding his cup anymore until it was tipping, hot coffee spilling down his ‘Stud Muffin’ t-shirt and plaid jacket. Swearing, Stiles jumped up and danced around, trying to brush the burning hot liquid off. But that only succeeded in spreading the mess further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swore and dropped his hands, gazing at his damp clothes in defeat. It took him about ten more seconds to realize the rest of the cafe was staring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, a flush creeping up his neck, Stiles offered a lazy smile and shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monday mornings, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel Cora smirking at him from behind the counter. Face flaming, Stiles ran a hand through his hair— getting coffee in it too, of course, and sighed. Because dammit, this situation couldn’t get any worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, anyone have a napkin?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>- -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, his apartment kind of sucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, scratch that. Stiles’s apartment really sucked. But he had this pet peeve where he didn’t like to spend money and he really didn’t like to spend money on himself; not like he had anyone else to splurge on. Not currently, at least. Or in the past few years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t do anyone outside of acquaintances. If he thought about it, Cora might be the only person he actually talked to on the daily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn’t even know her last name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Old take-out boxes littered the table, couch, and kitchen counters, and a packet of open Twizzlers had somehow found their way into Stiles’s laundry basket. He hadn’t taken the trash out in… weeks now? So the entire thing was beyond overflowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles wrinkled his nose and tried to navigate his way through the debris. He hadn’t done laundry in a few weeks either, but he had a stack of ‘could probably wear again’ t-shirts, which he pulled on after stripping off his coffee-stained one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should probably shower, but Stiles decided that was a later problem. Instead, he settled with combing his fingers through his hair a few times and pulling on a fresh-ish plaid long-sleeved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles thumbed out his phone then, grabbing the packet of Twizzlers and sticking one into his mouth. They were only slightly stale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he died, he died.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew Deaton’s number by heart. It was one of the few he did; other than his dad’s and Lydia Martin’s, the love of his adolescent life. Which was a story for much, much later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, you know. Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t have any new calls or text messages, but that wasn’t a surprise. He hadn’t had any in a while since the only person he ever bothered to text was his dad. And over the years, even those conversations had become pretty strained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles supposed that was his fault. His dad had no idea why he’d left Beacon Hills, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Didn’t know what Stiles did for a living, or what he’d gone on to do after high school. The man probably thought Stiles was still in the study abroad program, trying to figure his life out because a sixteen-year-old going to college was a little too unbelievable. And a sixteen-year-old getting drafted into a supernatural program would be something no one would ever even think of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles had never had the heart to let his old man know the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been a disappointment enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles typed out Deaton’s number before hesitating. Because this would be more than a job; it would be going back home. Possibly for a few days, possibly for a few months, depending on the severity of the task. He had been in Bolivia for three months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, he’d see his dad again. He’d see his house again. His old room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about those last few thoughts had Stiles pressing the call button. And before he could change his mind, he shoved the phone against his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It rang once, then twice. Stiles suddenly realized that he hadn’t checked the date of the email. What if it had been sent while he was in Bolivia? What if the offer was already up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The familiar crack of anxiety kicked in, as did the urge to pace in circles. Stiles stumbled across the room, the phone still pressed against his ear, and grabbed a near-empty bottle of Adderal from the counter. He picked up a glass of water too— only realize that while it was clear, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>water— and fumbled around for another one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, clean dishes were also something he was severely lacking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles ended up taking his pills dry and nearly choked as the line stopped ringing. A voice came through; one he recognized in a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deaton!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was starting to think you wouldn’t call.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, rubbing a hand over his face and swallowing the foul taste of his pills again. “You know me. I check my email once in a full moon. Didn’t expect to see your name, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There it was again. “And who is we, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself. If you’re up for it, that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I getting paid?” Stiles didn’t have any shame in asking that question. Hometown or not, Deaton or not, he was a Spark for hire. And he’d be a pretty sucky one if he did just any job without the expectation of payment. Or… he’d been even suckier than he already was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles was mildly acceptable on a good day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate the professional inquiry, Stiles. Yes, you’ll be getting paid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you know me, D. All about being professional. Is it really so urgent? I can never tell with your emails.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a problem we could use your help with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buttering me up? I’m flattered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a huff of laughter. Deaton might not be all rainbows and sparkles, but Stiles knew how to get under his skin. In fact, he knew how to get under nearly everyone’s skin. He considered it another one of his amazingly-epic hyperactive Spark talents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles pressed the phone to his other ear, stumbling across the kitchen to search the cabinets for something other than Twizzlers to eat. “So, how bad is it exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laughter faded and the line went suspiciously quiet for a moment. Stiles paused, blinking at the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deaton?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember what happened the night of your mother’s death?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles felt the life drain out of him. He stumbled back, cabinet door slamming closed, and fell heavily against the opposite counter. It was like a blow to the chest to hear that again. Stiles hadn’t thought about his mother’s death in… well, in a long time. Too long. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The reports are exactly the same, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They aren’t animal attacks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think this is something you should be here for, Stiles. Your father already has the entire police force prioritizing the killings, but they’ve come up with nothing. It’s been four weeks now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dad’s in the middle of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come back home, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Back home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The words struck him hard enough to steal his breath. Stiles stared at the opposite wall for a moment, seeing nothing but stars. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a job anymore. It wasn’t just the joke of being paid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was his dad. His mom.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be there,” Stiles said, the words coming out rushed and strangled. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be there, Deaton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How soon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow at the latest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side of the line, Stiles heard the man let out an audible breath. His mind was still spinning at a hundred miles an hour, but his pulse slowed a little at the familiar sound. Stiles opened his eyes again as the man’s voice came back through, relieved this time. “Good. I’ll see you soon then, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yeah. Soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone clicked off. For a moment, the silence is deafening and Stiles stared nothingness. He wasn’t used to that— the silence. His mind was always moving, his thoughts always a jumble. Sometimes, they were too loud, too painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But never quiet. Never this quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, Stiles started toward the glass of non-water and tried not to think of what the next few hours were gonna be like. Quite possibly, hellish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, who was he kidding? They already were.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two doses of Adderall, five cans of red bull, and four hours later, Stiles drove over the border of the town that he once knew so well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, it was really not. It had been four years and Stiles didn’t remember there being a movie theater or one of those fancy green grocery stores. Beacon Hills had always been a small town and there were never enough people for it to acquire any actual attractions. Mostly, it was just the fun you could make or find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles used to find fun. But that involved bothering his father at the Sheriff's station and riding his bike through the preserve until a broken bottle or sharp rock gave him a flat tire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have many friends growing up. Or… any really. But Stiles had always preferred it that way. That’s what he had told himself, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But things worked out. He never had anything to return to. Other than his dad, that is, but they’d had a strained relationship the past year or so. Or… ever since his mother’s death, to be honest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t like being honest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton owned the local— and only— veterinary clinic int the town. Or, the clinic and the mysterious side rooms filled with old books and various magical items that no one else knew existed. One that Stiles had known about since Deaton took him underneath his wing, but he was pretty sure no one else did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been wrong before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parking outside of the clinic felt like the old days. Hell, Stiles still had the car his father gave him when he graduated. An old blue jeep named Roscoe who broke down more often than she worked. Which was fine. Totally fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She used to be his mother’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bell over the door rang as Stiles pushed in. The sudden rush of musty air was so familiar, he had to stop for a second and take it all in, his brain going haywire for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might’ve had a little too much caffeine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton didn’t immediately show his face, so Stiles trudged toward the office in the back. He didn’t knock but poked his head around the corner and grinned at seeing the dark-skinned man leaning over a desk in the corner of the dusty room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat loudly and Deaton looked sharply up, going tense for a moment. But the moment he saw Stiles, every part of his posture relaxed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Stilinski, you came a lot faster than I expected. You’re looking well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorted, running his teeth over his lower lip. He highly doubted that; his diet consisted of curly fries, energy drinks, and his medication, and Stiles was positive he didn’t get enough sleep or sun. Cora once told him he looked like a skinny, spastic ghost with slightly-okay hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d taken it as a compliment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton, on the other hand, looked almost exactly the same as Stiles remembered. The man set down his pen and rose, eyes going over Stiles’s entire frame as he moved around his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got a tattoo,” the man said, looking intrigued. Stiles glanced down; where the ends of a tattoo curled up the nape of his neck and blinked, before nodding. He tended to forget about it, sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he said. “It’s, uh—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magical?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh. Sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton opened his mouth but then there was the sudden sound of approaching footsteps. Stiles spun around to see a newcomer come around the corner, a stack of papers in hand. He froze when he saw Stiles, though, and they stared at each other for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, faster than humanly possible, the boy’s eyes flashed gold and fangs dropped over his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles yelped and stumbled back, energy exploding from his palms. It slammed the boy against the nearest shelf and both books and jars of who-knew-what spilled to the floor. A pained roar filled the air and the boy’s face was all but human now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His glare was predatory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Werewolf,” Stiles said in a snarl, finding his balance again. A rune of silver formed in the air between them; one meant to attack and hurt. But before he could activate it, Deaton moved forward, raising his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rune vanished. Stiles looked at him sharply and from across the room, the other boy flinched a little, claws retracting as he turned his face away. Deaton moved to stand between them, giving Stiles a disgruntled look. His eyes betrayed nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, please do not attack my new assistant. Scott didn’t mean anything by his shift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>New assistant?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That was enough to make Stiles lose his intentions to attack. He stumbled back, blinking at the boy and then suddenly, the realization hit him like a blow to the chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t been in Beacon Hills for two years. Of course, Deaton had gotten a new assistant. It wasn’t like Stiles was around to help out anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the man, Scott shifted from foot to foot. His eyes were normal again; dark brown and startlingly warm, if Stiles hadn’t just seen him turn half-wolf. Scott gazed across the room sheepishly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you’re Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles frowned. The boy already knew his name. “Glad to see one of us knew the other existed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles—” Deaton said, eyebrows raising. But Stiles cut him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, Deaton, is the ‘we’ you were talking about? You couldn’t just have said ‘me and my werewolf apprentice of two years’ over the phone instead? It would’ve been nice to know what I was walking into!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man sighed, crossing his arms. Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine, I get it. Confidentiality or whatever. But it’s not like I would’ve gone around telling any and everyone, dude. Just because I can babble doesn’t mean I’ll divulge all your life secrets to anyone who asks. Unless they’re like, smoking hot and— I’m joking!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Stiles,” Deaton said. “But there’s a lot more going on here than you realize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like the killings similar to my mom’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott straightened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles realized then, that the boy didn't know everything. Which was fine by him, he decided. He wasn’t jealous, totally not jealous, he was just being cautious. It was his decision to leave Beacon Hills four years ago, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t expect Deaton to not find another apprentice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he says, stepping forward. “Scott. Werewolf. I’m guessing… eighteen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nineteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Born with it or turned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott flinched a little, lowering his eyes. “Turned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles clenched his jaw. He knew there were multiple ways for non-supernatural folk to become more… well, supernatural. Curses, spells, bites, etc. Some were born with it, some weren’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s always harder for those who weren't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the jealousy in his chest faded. Rather, Stiles felt sorry for the boy in front of him. Placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder, Stiles offered his best smile. “Well, you can rest well knowing you nearly made me wet my pants. That’s quite the bonding experience, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott’s eyes crinkled puppyishly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Deaton said, cutting in. “Moving on. Stiles, have you contacted your father yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Stiles pulled his hand back. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you plan to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tapped nervous fingers against his jeans. He’d considered it earlier, actually, but then he’d gotten distracted by chugging another can of red bull. It made sense that he’d see his dad; now that he was in town and all. But some part of him was still scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scared he’d be turned away after all these years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton’s eyes softened. “Well, do you at least have a place to stay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Stiles said intelligently. “I’ll get one. Yeah, I’ll do that. You know, find someplace that doesn’t have a track record for murder and isn’t being run by witches or something. Which, I actually experienced once. It isn’t as fun as it sounds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Scott said, looking fascinated. “Hey, you could stay with me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles blinked in surprise. Scott’s puppy eyes came back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have space, if you don’t mind crashing on the couch,” he continued. “We could order pizza and watch movies and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t a middle school sleepover, Scott,” Deaton said gently. Scott’s face dropped and Stiles cursed his obviously massively caring heart, putting on a bright smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, actually, it’s fine! Sure, dude, I could use a place to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, who doesn’t love pizza? With stuffed crust, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott grinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton only shook his head, but it looked like he was withholding an amused expression. Stiles didn’t really remember the last time he hung out with a friend. Other than Cora, that was, but they had a love-hate relationship. Usually, his endless chatter or hyperactive behavior scared everyone away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, the fact that he had so many secrets was a bit of a turn-off. Surprise, surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he said, turning back to Deaton. “Whatcha readin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They got to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turns out, Deaton was looking over papers from one of his bestiaries. They weren’t from a volume Stiles had read before, but it was similar to others he’d studied. He liked to think of himself as well educated in most things supernatural. But even so, looking over the papers, he wasn’t sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>Deaton had been searching for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, while Deaton continued with his reading and Scott moved back out of the office to check on the animals, Stiles poured over the stack of newspapers left on the edge of the desk. There had been three deaths in total these past few weeks, he read. All with the same description.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bodies mangled. Sometimes more than that. It was gruesome, bloody, and the victims seemed to have nothing in common.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles buried his face in his hands, sighing. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wonderful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott came back into the room and glanced over, raising a brow. “Is everything alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The killer could be anything,” Stiles said, glaring at the newspapers. It sounded like whining even to his own ears, but he didn’t care. He was coming off the caffeine overdose from this morning and at this point, his head just hurt. “There are a lot of creatures out there who like to wine and dine on innocent people. I’ve killed plenty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, usually. There’s the occasional occurrence of maiming, sometimes a little bit of marring, but it’s usually murdering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott’s eyes were round. “Like, murder, murder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, dude. Murder, murder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles,” Deaton said, cutting him off. It sounded a lot like a warning, but Scott didn’t look scared or grossed out. Just… fascinated. Still, Stiles rolled his eyes and changed the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, D, fine. Do we have any leads? Anything left on scene or any possible evidence that could connect us to whatever is killing all these people?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet. But that’s where your father could come in handy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles blinked. “My dad’s the Sheriff. He runs the force and all, but he never talked about the cases that went on. All I remember are late hours and early mornings.” He sounded a little bitter, he realized, and tied to wipe that from his tone. “I don’t want to get him involved. Not if this is more dangerous than we think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s all the family I have left, Deaton. I won’t lose him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton’s expression turned gentle. Stiles swallowed and looked away, chewing on his lower lip. He was willing to do nearly anything to help but at some point, he had to draw the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Didn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to bring him in,” Deaton said. “But the closer you get to what he does, the closer you are to what he knows about this case. That could be useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles just nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man was right, he knew. But maybe he was scared. Scared to face his dad and see how he would react. Stiles didn’t like the pit that formed in his stomach when he thought about that. He’d spent too much of his childhood feeling it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just think about it,” Deaton said. He closed his book and glanced out the window, where the sun was setting. “And go home, you two. Get some sleep, come back tomorrow. Being exhausted won’t help with anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles was more than relieved to hear that. He was starting to feel like he could keel over and fall asleep on the papers he’d been studying. Scott stood, nodding Deaton goodbye, and Stiles followed him out of the office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, dude, do you have a car?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott shook his head. “Usually, I walk or bike.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I can drive, Scotty. But don’t judge Roscoe. She’s old, a little loud, and kinda falling apart, but she gets the job done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roscoe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. She’s my baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott grinned and they left the clinic. Stiles had forgotten what the air of Beacon Hills smelled like; old leaves, faint dew, and the distant preserve on the edge of town. He closed his eyes and realized with a pang that he’d missed this. He’d missed the smells outside of New York, old take-out, and dirty laundry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some part of him had missed Beacon Hills, even if he never would have admitted it out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking, he came snapping back to reality. Scott watched him with a hesitant expression and Stiles put on his best grin, pulling out his keys with a wink. He didn’t miss how Scott’s face went through several different reactions at seeing Roscoe in the parking lot; the blue jeep with chipped paint, held together by duct-tape, and a little beaten and battered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the boy didn’t say a word. Stiles decided he could get used to this guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only took a few tries to get her to start, thankfully. Stiles thought he should feel embarrassed by the fast-food wrappers and empty energy drinks on the floor, but he’d learned to live with his shame long ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, they were cruising down the darkening small-town streets. Stiles really had missed this; maybe a little, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re from here?” Scott asked. Stiles nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Born and raised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. “I had, uh, my reasons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve thought about leaving before,” Scott said. “But right now, I’m here for college. Start my second year in a week, actually. I live pretty close to campus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>for college? Dude, we barely have a middle and high school, much less a college.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott looks sheepish. “I didn’t want to leave my mom. She would work all night and day if she didn’t have someone to stop for. I've got an apartment close to her and the college. Just in case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a nurse at the hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nodded, eyes fixed on the road. He didn’t want to address the way his stomach twisted a little bit or how his mind wandered to his dad again. “So, uh, where are we going? You’re the navigator, dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just straight for a few more miles and there should be— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott saw it before Stiles did, eyes flashing bright gold. 'It' being a dark shape tearing across the road that is. Stiles managed to yank the steering wheel sideways, hitting the breaks, but it was too late. There was a loud thump, the entire car jolted, and then they were going off the road. Stiles’s stomach leaped into his throat and he jerked so hard, he saw stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he heard it. A loud, angry roar, Roscoe hitting the bottom of the ditch with a terrible creaking sound and the roar echoed the air, making his blood freeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the sound of a predator. A killer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all Stiles could think was </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Roscoe never deserved such abuse.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Next to him, Scott had started breathing heavily, as if staving off an asthma attack. Stiles looked over but the cuts on the boy’s face had already started to close up, vanishing from sight. Bringing a hand to his own face, Stiles felt blood and bit back a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes he hated the supernatural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His palm grew warmer the longer he kept it on his own wounds. It took a little bit of energy, feeling like a tingling creeping underneath his skin, but eventually, his own cuts faded too, leaving him feeling a bit lightheaded. Stiles dropped his hand with a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S—Stiles—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright, buddy,” Stiles said, shifting again. “I’m alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peered through the cracked windshield to see they’d gone off the road and ended up in a small ditch, the rest of the preserve around them and the empty road at their backs. Roscoe had stopped inches from a tree, thankfully. Stiles really didn’t want to see all the damage, but he shoved his door open anyway, stumbling out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a large dent in Roscoe’s side. Whatever hit them had hit them hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles cursed and whirled toward the sound the roar had come from. It had to be some kind of creature; there were no wild animals that could do that much damage and still be alive. Dammit, they were lucky it hadn’t been worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scott,” he said. “Is there anything close?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy stumbled to his side, brushing pieces of glass off his shirt. One of the windows must have broken on impact too, from the small tears in Scott’s t-shirt. He raised his head, eyes sharpening, and scented the air. Stiles raised a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott suddenly stiffened. “There’s another—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something came shooting out of the trees. Too fast, more than a blur, and hit the boy head-on, flipping him over. Stiles stumbled back and Scott shouted out in pain, hitting the ground hard and going silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles spun on his heel, facing a creature of glowing blue eyes and bared teeth. He bit back a curse. Another werewolf. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes flashed brighter and the wolf howled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles barely had the chance to throw up a protection rune before the werewolf leaped forward. It was quick and simple, one of the first spells he’d learned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t going to be enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wolf slammed off the barrier and stumbled back, powerful body flexing. Stiles stumbled back toward Scott, who seemed to have lost consciousness. There were rips in his shirt; claw marks. Blood stained through them and Stiles felt a rush of anger, facing the wolf again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, all of this unnecessary! What the hell do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spark</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked at the snarled word and his shield weakened. The werewolf took that chance to drive him to the ground, claws sinking deep into his shoulder. Stiles howled and kicked up, trying to knock the wolf off. But that only succeeded in tearing more flesh. He went still, panic lodging in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand wrapped around his throat but this time, it was human. Blinking up, Stiles realized the werewolf had changed half-way back. And he was a man, stubbled and scowling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the moonlight, his eyes looked more green than blue. Despite the hand around his neck and the claw marks having nearly ripped his shoulder to shreds, the man didn’t look nearly as murderous. Stiles didn’t know if that was good for him or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy seemed half-feral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spark,” he snarled again. Stiles blinked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles convulsively swallowed but that only made the man tighten his hold. Choking on his own breath, Stiles scrabbled at the hand. “Just visiting. Oh my god, please tell me this isn’t the town welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man bared his teeth, but also looked a little confused at the answer. Stiles used that moment to thrust his palm up, crackling energy sending the werewolf flying back. He hit the nearest tree and howled in pain, slumping to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tattoo on Stiles’s chest burned. He could feel power in his blood, moving to heal the broken parts of his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood slowly and approached the man, who had shifted completely back. He didn’t look more than three years older than Stiles himself, with a branch going straight through the lower part of his abdomen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Stiles said, looking away with a churning stomach. The man tried to shift again, snarling, and that drew Stiles’s attention back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was pain in the man’s eyes, but also cold, dark anger. The kind that would usually make Stiles turn on his heel and go whistling in the other direction. But instead, he swallowed hard and stepped forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, that was all kind of rude. Attacking Roscoe and all while she did nothing wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roscoe?” The name was hissed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My car, dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes flashed blue. “You think I care about your car?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re gonna care about the charges I plan on pressing when we take her to the mechanic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or, I’ll just take a check,” Stiles said, hands tucked into his pockets as he shrugged. “I don’t make it a habit to befriend psycho werewolves who attack me and my friend outta nowhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man took another growling, painful breath and Stiles could see the wound trying to heal, but the obstacle in its way made that a little difficult. He cursed himself for feeling bad and dropped to one knee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna rip my throat out if I try to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter Parker. Can I please help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crooked up a brow. The werewolf groaned, face tight with pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not your name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, come on, growly-brows, I’m not giving out a powerful thing like that. Usually, I require dinner first and a movie. Or at least the assurance that you’re not gonna kill me in my sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds tempting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? And that’s why you’re not getting anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached for the branch, but the werewolf snarled and bared his teeth again. Scowling, Stiles pulled back once more and stood, crossing his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I’ll just leave you here then. How’s that sound?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A murderous glare was his answer. Stiles shrugged and turned around, tromping back toward where Scott was still unconscious. The werewolf snarled louder at his back but didn’t make any noises other than that, so Stiles dropped down at Scott’s side instead, searching him up and down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t badly hurt and Stiles knew once he was conscious again, he’d be promptly healing. He probably hit his head pretty hard on impact, but his breaths were even. Stiles linked an arm underneath his and hefted the unconscious beta to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if Scott wasn’t heavy. Or maybe Stiles was just too weak. Spastic and scrawny weren’t terribly helpful when trying to drag an unconscious werewolf back to his busted car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead, Stiles started toward the road. He wanted to pat Roscoe on the hood and tell her everything was gonna be okay, but he figured if he set Scott down, he wouldn’t be able to pick him back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dragging his phone out of his pocket, Stiles punched in Deaton’s number and brought the phone to his ear. The man answered after only one ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles? Is something wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ran into a little trouble, D. Could use some help if you’re not busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could already hear the man moving. “What happened? Where are you two?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… headed toward Scott’s apartment. I don’t know where exactly, but we should see your car. Roscoe is kind of banged up and there’s another werewolf—” He glanced over his shoulder, only to freeze. The man was gone, the branch broken off where he’d been. It was like he’d never been there. “Oh, shit, nevermind. He’s gone. And slightly murderous, if I’ll say so myself. Are you coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On my way. Stay put.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Stiles was going to go anywhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut his phone back off and lowered Scott to the ground, eyeing the preserve again. But there was no other movement than the breeze. Stiles could smell the faint tang of blood on it, but couldn’t see anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knot formed in his throat. Stiles stayed on his guard, just in case, but the other werewolf seemed to have been scared away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, probably not scared away. Stiles didn’t think angry eyes and grumpy brows like that got scared very easily. But the man was gone, as least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take Deaton long to arrive. Stiles saw headlights pierce through the night in less than ten minutes and a battered pickup pulled off the side of the road. The door banged as Deaton jumped out, moving toward them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Growly-brows the angry werewolf decided to say hello. He hit Scott pretty hard and knocked him out, but I don’t think it’s any worse than that. Scott was already stitching back together last I checked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the other werewolf?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, uh, accidentally impaled him through a tree limb. I thought that’d do the job, but one moment he was there and the next...” Stiles looked back helplessly, gesturing a hand through the air. “He was gone. Goodbye, big bad wolf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Help me get Scott into the truck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles did, taking one of Scott’s arms while Deaton took the other. It was easier to get him into the backseat than it would have been alone and he was seriously glad for the few times he bothered to go to the gym. His arms weren’t nearly as noodly as they looked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He climbed into the passenger seat, Deaton driving, and then they were back on the road in moments. Stiles glanced back at his car, still bashed off the side of the road, and sighed mournfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have to call a tow truck tomorrow. She’s gonna be so expensive to repair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you get a good look at the other werewolf?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, turning back around. “Big, snarly. Had angry eyebrows and gave off a kind of serial-killer vibe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton gave him a sideways look. Stiles flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno. He had, uh, grey-green eyes and dark hair. Tall, pretty well built. Couldn’t be older than twenty-two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton looked back at the road, lips tight. Stiles wished he had more but his memory was a blur of adrenaline, snapping teeth, and the feeling of claws in his shoulder. He rolled them back with a wince, feeling aching skin that was still working to heal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright, Mr. Stilinski?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He clawed me at first. I think the guy has anger issues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why he attacked you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles ran his tongue over his teeth. “He knew I was a Spark. That’s the first thing he said, at least. Wanted to know why I was here, made a few threats about tearing my throat out. Or… maybe I suggested those threats and he kinda rolled with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton looked over with a raised eyebrow. Stiles shrugged in defense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I babble when I’m terrified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like you managed to fend for yourself though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t exactly mean to impale him on a tree. But the guy really needs to trim his nails.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was happy to hear Deaton huff a small laugh, looking back out the window. It was dark outside now and maybe he would’ve seen the man better if there had been more light. Or if he’d been paying more attention. Stiles cursed himself internally and tries to quell an ache of guilt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d done the best he could. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the backseat, Scott suddenly groaned. Stiles spun around and placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, helping him wake gently. But for a moment, brown eyes glowed golden and there was a claw at his throat, making Stiles yelp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah, dude! It’s me! No clawing, it’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott blinked. Then, slowly, he lowered his arm, mumbling some sort of apology. Stiles patted him on the shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, Scotty-boy. Just don’t gut the obvious hero.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hero?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, man, you should’ve seen it. I was an embodiment of Hercules, with slightly smaller muscles and minus the golden hair. A total catch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott chuckled, which was a relief. Stiles kept one hand on his shoulder the rest of the ride to the apartment, babbling whatever thought came to mind. It seemed to make the boy relax, eyes falling closed again. His clothes are bloody but he seemed to have healed right back up, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll get some chicken soup in you,” Stiles said. “I’m an amazing cook when it comes from a can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sick, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, chicken soup heals everything. Once, I got stabbed by an angry fae, had some chicken noodle soup, and bam. Totally better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott laughed again. “I need to hear more of your stories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most of them are less exciting than you’d think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fae? Witches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I just do a lot of stumbling, cursing, and a bit of conjuring runes here and there, and it somehow works out. I think I’m just lucky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still want to hear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, puppy-eyes,” Stiles conceded. “After a bowl of soup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Puppy what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looked incredulously back at the boy. But Scott just looked completely confused and, yep, there they were again. Stiles shook his head and turned back around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Scotty-boy. Have you ever even </span>
  <em>
    <span>looked </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a mirror?” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stiles slept straight through the night and well into the morning, despite crashing on a couch that was about three-fourths of his size.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d made sure Scott was still alive before knocking out, although the werewolf didn’t seem to need his mothering. In fact, Stiles suspected he’d gone through similar occurrences like this before, only alone. The boy seemed to know how to fend for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t know how long he’d been a werewolf, but that still made him a little sad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringing of his phone woke him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning, Stiles rolled over and shut if off. Blissful silence fell over the apartment once more for a long moment, before his phone started ringing again. Letting loose a string of curses, Stiles grabbed it and hit the answer button hard, his eyes still closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It may be nine in the morning, but I refuse to be up with the sun. Who is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles was awake in a second, sitting up so fast he tumbled sideways off the couch. He saw stars for a moment, before bringing his phone back to his ear, sprawled on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, my god, Stiles,” his dad’s voice broke a little. The sound snapped Stiles’s heart right in two. He hadn’t heard such pain in the man’s voice since he came home with the news of Stiles’s mother’s death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, not death. Of her murder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… Yeah, dad, it’s me,” Stiles said, licking his lips and then swallowing hard. “Is there something wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does there have to be something wrong for a father to call his son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, of course not,” Stiles said. Except, they’d barely texted three times in the past month. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he'd called his dad or his dad had called him. “I’m just surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, are you back in town?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question made him tense. How did his dad know? “Um, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got a call from the towing company this morning. It’s a small town, kiddo, and they recognized your car. Said she’s battered up pretty bad, but nobody was on the scene when they came to get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles swallowed compulsively. He couldn’t think of a good answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never been good on the spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, are you okay?” The worry was back in his dad’s voice. “Are you hurt? Did something happen last night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I— no, no, dad, I’m fine. I was driving into town last night and I didn’t see the deer until it was too late. I, uh, had a friend come pick me up when Roscoe wouldn’t start.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you’re back in town?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you didn’t call me instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles closed his eyes as the guilt crashed over him. How could he explain being terrified to even punch in his dad’s number? To face the possible rejection after not seeing him for four years? He swallowed hard again and sat up shakily. “I should have, I know. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line was silent for a moment. Then, he heard his dad sigh. “You have a friend here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember Deaton?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your old boss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah. There’s a new kid that works for him now. We uh… well, he’s a nice guy. Funny, friendly. He’s going to college here and I thought I’d spend a couple of nights at his place. He offered the couch out after last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you going to tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles swallowed again. But his throat was too tight and suddenly, the room was spinning. He had to fight the feeling of a ghost hand pressing against his chest, stealing his breath away and making him feel like he was about to faceplant. He hadn’t felt like this in… damn, in years. Since leaving Beacon Hills behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was, dad, I was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hesitant silence reigned again. Then, “Are you free today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crushing feeling vanished. Stiles blinked and then nodded, before remembering his dad couldn’t see him. The words spilled over each other as Stiles kept nodding anyway. </span>
  <span>“Free, free, yeah, I’m so free. I’m absolutely free today. Do you want to do something? Get lunch? Dinner?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad chuckled. It was such a relief to hear, Stiles felt like he could melt into the floor. “I work until five. Meet at home around then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The word almost felt foreign on Stiles’s tongue. He rubbed a hand over his face and nodded again, before feeling stupid once more. “Yeah, that’s perfect, dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. See you then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line clicked off and he stared at his phone for a moment longer before it all sunk in. Stiles was back. He was back in Beacon Hills. He’d talked to his dad again and he got to go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floorboards creaked. Stiles looked sharply up to see Scott, shifting from foot to foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was your dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Stiles said, a smiling pulling at his lips. “Yeah, that was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like things went well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles stared for a moment and then blinked. The enhanced senses, of course. He snorted and stood up, shooting the boy an amused look. “Sometimes I hate you werewolves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got the puppy dog eyes as an answer. Stiles only rolled his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t do that. You know I’m weak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked in confusion. Scott shrugged with a sheepish look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For last night. I don’t know if you saved my life or just saved me from a lot of pain, but I appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, it’s what I do, Scotty boy. Stiles Stilinski, super Spark extraordinaire, saving maidens and mister maidens all across the world. Loved and revered by all. It’s in the job title, you didn’t know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott rolled his eyes. Stiles grinned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, breakfast?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m starving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thumped Scott on the back and then grabbed his jacket, pulling it over his ‘talk nerdy to me’ t-shirt. He didn’t even bother with his hair, knowing it wouldn’t listen anyway. “Pancakes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pancakes are great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Cause you’re paying!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles thought he heard a warning growl behind him. But he was already starting down the stairs, taking them two at a time, determined not to let the werewolf argue otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott paid.</span>
</p><p>-</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the day passed by in a blur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That might have been because Stiles was waiting on the edge of his seat for five o’clock to come. Or it might have been because they spent the rest of the day cooped up in Deaton’s back office, searching through old books and newspaper clips, trying to find something— anything— that made sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was slow going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could the killer be the werewolf from last night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Stiles shrugged, running a hand through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, he did attack us. The bodies people have found have been ripped apart— claws. The guy seemed a little feral so he could be losing control and killing people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It could be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we need to find him again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott shuddered from across the room. “I don’t look forward to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But the bodies have been left bloody and mangled,” Deaton said, sounding thoughtful. “And there’s been a mark…” He pulled out one of his books and flipped it open, pushing it across the table. The moment Stiles got a glimpse of the symbol, his stomach twisted. “Revenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, D. The guy seemed a little angry but not… psychotic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was unconscious,” Scott mumbled. Stiles only shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little feral or not, growly-brows was definitely still human,” Stiles said, resigned. “Not crazy, I don’t think. I still think we should keep an eye out for him, but it could also be something else”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something far less human?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nodded, eyes still fixed on the symbol. Deaton sighed and pulled back and Stiles finally raised his eyes, gaze flicking to the clock on the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, he yelped, slamming the book back closed. The others looked over in alarm and Stiles stumbled around the room, grabbing his jacket and pulling it back over his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve gotta meet my dad in fifteen!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you are going to talk to him,” Deaton said, looking a little relieved. Stiles paused, eyeing the man and raked a hand through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, sorta, I guess. We’re gonna see where the night takes us. You know, chat, eat. All that fun stuff. Can I borrow your car?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton raised an eyebrow. Stiles made a face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roscoe is still in the shop.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man sighed. “Very well. But not a scratch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course. I’ll care of her— him?— like my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He caught the tossed keys and grinned goofily, saluting with two fingers before stumbling out of the office. He could’ve sworn he heard Scott snort behind him, but didn’t stick around long enough to catch him in the act.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton’s pickup wasn’t so bad. Of course, it wasn’t Roscoe either but it was something. And Stiles would much rather drive than walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shall name you Humphrey the third,” he said, patting the dash. “And you shall be mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car didn’t reply. Thankfully, or he’d be very alarmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Humphrey, at least, started up quieter and faster than Roscue. Not that Stiles would ever hold that against her. Roscoe had been his mother’s car before she died and he’d cherish her to his last breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been four years, but Stiles still knew the town like the back of his hand. It was still as small, cozy, and quiet as he remembered, though there were a few new attractions. The movie theatre, a couple fast food stops. Gloriously, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gloriously, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a place for laser tag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might be nineteen, but Stiles still appreciated the little things in life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling up in front of his house, on the other hand, felt like stepping into a foreign reality. The hedges that used to grow around the sidewalk were gone. The grass was dying. Even the tree by Stiles’s window that he used to sneak down at night looked withered and old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sat in the driveway for a moment trying to take it all in. He sent out a tendril of energy and almost instantly it recoiled back, away from the sickly feeling of old memories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly, Stiles’s heart was beating too fast. Was this really the home he remembered?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t like remembering much since his mother’s death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deep breaths,” Stiles said, closing his eyes. He tapped restless fingers against the arm of the seat and cursed himself when he realized he forgot to take his medication again. Nervous energy raced through him like wild horses on a track. “Deep breaths, dammit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t help much. But he managed to turn the car off and stumble out, stuffing the keys into his pocket. He still paused at the door, though, and stared at it for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did he knock? Ring the doorbell? Because he didn’t just have the right to walk right inside, did he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the handle was turning and Stiles nearly stumbled back. But then the door opened and the familiar face of his dad made him freeze, staring as if time had stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad looked the same as the day Stiles had left. Except… he didn’t. There were more wrinkles around his eyes. Fewer smile lines. He’d lost weight, even thought Stiles had always claimed he was the only reason his dad stayed healthy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles swallowed. “Hey, dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S-Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence stretched for a moment. Then before he could think, Stiles was moving forward, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck as he turned his face into his shoulder. He didn’t remember the last time they’d hugged. After graduation, maybe. His dad had laughed through teary eyes and pulled him close, stubble brushing against Stiles’s forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m so proud of you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d said. And in that moment, everything had been okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But things were different now. But he was hyper-aware of his dad relaxing slowly and then the hug was being returned. The familiar feeling of home wrapped around Stiles and he swallowed hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you,” he whispered. A shudder went all the way through his dad’s body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I missed you too, Mischief."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, they pulled away, and the silence turned a little hesitant again. Stiles realized he could smell something cooking; but his dad almost never cooked. He sniffed the air and then nearly whimpered as he recognized the smell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom’s pasta?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s your favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles hugged him again. This time, it was less cautionary and more apologetic. Full of memory and regret. Stiles closed his eyes and tried to remember the days of smelling that dish. Coming home after school and </span>
  <em>
    <span>melting </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he recognized it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles closed his eyes and just remembered. Remember it all. And he realized that yes, he was home. Despite the dying shrubs. Despite the browning grass. He was here and he was back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was home.s</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Three days passed before there was another killing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This one was younger. A college kid who went camping with his friends before the start of the new school year. According to his friends, he volunteered to get more wood, didn’t turn up for an hour, and was found ripped apart when they went looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was only a freshman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them still hadn’t come up with anything yet and Stiles was on the verge of pulling out his hair. He’d actually gotten close a few times but Scott had managed to talk him down from the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dad wants to know why I’m here,” he said, gazing over the reports of the kid’s death. “Beyond visiting a friend. After four years of nothing and then showing up out of the blue, he’s a little suspicious. And I don’t think spending my days holed up in the vet’s clinic like an antisocial hermit is helping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you are staying, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until we catch this thing? That’s the plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton considered for a moment. “You’re nineteen, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time I checked, yes. Though, I’ve been told I don’t look it. And I really sometimes wonder if that’s a compliment or not and if I should be offended or proud of the fact that I’m basically still a sixteen-year-old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does your father think you did after graduation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A study abroad program that traveled to a different country each year,” Stiles said, glaring down at the papers a little harder. “Told him I got a scholarship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott made a strangled noise. “What age did you graduate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sixteen?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, there’s my brain, then there’s me,” Stiles said, waving a hand through the air. “I think if people knew the difference, they might not have allowed it. Technically, I haven’t been to college, unless you consider Deaton’s program of magic and combat skills enlightening in that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott looked at him with wide eyes. Stiles shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most nineteen-year-olds are going back to college in a week,” Deaton said, interrupting whatever Scott was going to say. “I’m sure your father would be delighted to hear you’re staying in town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I mean, I guess—” Stiles said, and then blinked, cutting off. “Wait, hold up. You want me to go to school? Like, books, classes, homework, and all of that stress-inducing stuff?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said so yourself, Stiles. Technically, you haven’t been to college yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I didn’t come here to take math!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was fixed with a pointed look. Stiles stood up straighter and chewed on his lower lip, glancing over at Scott. But the other boy just looked delighted. Like this was a sleepover that could extend to becoming roommates or something. “Uh… see, I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you could stay with me,” Scott said, flashing the puppy eyes. “I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or, I could work from here—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, as much as I appreciate all of this,” Deaton said, gesturing over the entirety of him and Stiles made an indignant squawking noise. “When’s the last time you actually lived your life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For your information, I happen to own my very own apartment back in New York, and I live very well off of take out and Twizzlers. I even have a job,” Stiles said, folding his arms over his chest. “Killing murderous and mildly annoying supernatural beasts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that’s every teenager’s dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m three months from twenty, thank you very much. I’m practically an adult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m sure you’d love the classes Beacon Hills Community College has to offer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles regarded the man with an open mouth, trying to come up with a better excuse. Sure, his dad was probably going to start asking questions. And yeah, he didn’t want to spend his entire time in Beacon Hills cooped up in this dusty office. But Stiles didn’t do school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t want to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s decided.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I don’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure Scott will help you get set up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton swept out of the room. Staring at the empty doorway, Stiles gaped for a moment, before dropping his head onto the table. He groaned, long and loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott just patted him on the shoulder. Stiles didn’t listen to what he said, though, internally wishing he’d stayed in New York. At least there, he had his responsibility-free apartment, no math, and all the Red Bull anyone could ever want.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This day just kept getting better and better.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dad took the news like Stiles thought he would. Confused, rather shocked, and a little bit suspicious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that? You’re staying just like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was always a possibility,” Stiles lied, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he struggled not to burn the ramen cooking on the stovetop. “I just didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you’re staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Is that okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was pretty sure that on the other side of the phone, his dad was smiling. “Kiddo, anyway I can get you to stay in town for a bit longer is much more than okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles grinned. “Well, I’m staying with that friend I told you about and I’ll be working at the clinic in my free time. Is it alright if I swing by every once in a while, though? You know, we could do dinner again or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The key’s under the doormat, just like it’s always been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles blinked. Then he shook his head, readjusting the phone. “Pops, dad, father-mine. Do you realize how dangerous that is? That’s like, the number one place someone would look when trying to break in. Then they wouldn’t even have to break in. They could walk straight through the door like they own the place, and that’s just bad manners.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If they’re going to look for a key instead of just smashing in a window, then I guess what happens, happens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haha, that’s hilarious. I’m going to have to find somewhere more secure to put it, aren’t I? Or, you know, you could just carry it with your car keys like a normal person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of cars, how’s Roscoe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles groaned, stumbling to add more water to the pot before the noodles stuck and blackened. “She’s still in the shop. You know, I used to think my bike was the best thing ever but I’d do anything to have her back again. I fully blame growly-brows and his temper tantrum. Roscoe never deserved such abuse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Growly... wait, what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He froze, internally cursing himself. “Oh, uh, you know what, nevermind. I’m just rambling. Listen, I’ll call you later, I think my ramen’s about to burn and if I can’t do this one thing right, I might do a backflip out the window. But I’ll come by at some point, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds good, son. See you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gazed at the dark phone for a moment, before realizing his noodles were boiling over the edge of the pot. Cursing, Stiles pulled them off the heat, hissing as his fingers brushed against metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott plodded into the room. “What’s burning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An important thing to know about me, man. I can’t cook.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott grinned and it was all teeth. Stiles couldn’t get over the difference between the werewolf and the boy, but one was much scarier than the other. “We could go out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Out, out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know a good place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Usually, I’m the one with the bad ideas, so I’m gonna trust you on this,” Stiles said, sucking on his burnt thumb. “Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That grin didn’t fade. “You’ll see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles debated changing into something…  nicer, before they left, but he ended up going with his usual plaid and an overlarge t-shirt. Since neither of them had a car, they ended up walking to where Scott meant, and he was relieved again that the town was so small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Scott said, glancing over. He tilts a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is your real name really Mieczyslaw Stilinski?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles choked on his breath and tripped over his own feet, spilling to the road. Scott scrambled to help, but Stiles only swatted the boy away, sitting up with a groan. “Where the hell did you hear that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deaton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott covered a smile, stepping back. “So, it’s true?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a family name. It was my great grandfather’s, my grandfather’s, and now mine. Trust me, I’m not planning on carrying on the tradition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t even know how to pronounce it spelled out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See, that’s exactly why I took a nickname that actually sounded real,” Stiles said, pulling himself up and brushing off his jeans. “Remind me to kill Deaton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easier said than done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be willing to take that risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott chuckled and they started back down the road. They were heading for a building of flashing lights and echoing music, Stiles realized. And he balked as he realized where Scott was taking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No way, dude. Seriously? A club?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bar-club.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a fake ID,” Stiles said, giving Scott a flat look. The boy grinned and pulled out his own, waving it through the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I do. Go around the back and I’ll let you in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And here I thought you were an innocent puppy dog, Scotty-boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah sure. You better not leave me hanging.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott elbowed him and started toward the line, while Stiles went around the corner, hands tucked into his pockets. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done any of this before, but usually it was alone and he can babble talk his way into the building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That tended to work. It was his special skill; getting under people’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paced back and forth, eyeing the back door every once in a while. Stiles knew Scott wouldn’t leave him out here, right? Sure, he might not be the most impressive friend to bring to a club but—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whirled around, nearly stumbling over his own feet. Scott stood in the door, beckoning him urgently in. Scrambling over, Stiles tossed a quick last glance over his shoulder before ducking inside, the heavy metal door closing with a thud behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaring music and neon lights filled the air. He twisted to look at the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you been here before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few times!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott started away and Stiles hurried to follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music was overwhelming, but it shut out the rest of Stiles’s brain, so that was okay. He slid onto one of the barstools beside Scott and the boy ordered two drinks. He didn’t really look twenty-one, but the bartender didn't seem to really care, turning away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t mind dancing and he wasn’t opposed to shooting his shot. But it had been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>since he’d been anywhere like this that his nerves thrummed slightly. He grabbed the bottle that was pushed over and took a deep swig, trying to calm them down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around the club and leaned back. Only to freeze. Because there was a figure in the booth across the room; one he recognized. His chest tightened and he made a strange gasping noise, bringing the bottle to his lips again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lydia Martin.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott shot him a confused look. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strawberry blonde hair, dude, strawberry freaking blonde hair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott followed his gaze. There was a girl across the room, sitting in a small booth with a group of friends, rolling her eyes and another guy slung an arm over her shoulders. Stiles blinked a few times and then swallowed hard, dropping his gaze to his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he recognized her. Of course, he recognized her; Lydia Martin was the first person he ever admitted to ever possibly loving. Childhood love, of course, but had it ever really changed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s that?” Scott asked, leaning over to get a better look. Stiles took another drink of his beer and grimaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydia Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were in the same grade as kids.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude!” Scott said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Go talk to her!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No! No way, absolutely not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cause she never even knew my name. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles only clamped his mouth shut and shook his head, looking anywhere but where Lydia sat. Flashing lights of green, pink, and blue danced over the walls. There were so many people, it was almost easy to pretend she wasn’t sitting over there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, then Stiles spotted someone else. Someone else he recognized in an instant, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wished he didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Murderous brows and flashing blue eyes. Standing against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, watching the two of them through the crowd like a wolf on prey. Which, Stiles supposed, was what they kind of were. His breaths lodged in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the other werewolf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott must have heard his heartbeat quicken, because he glanced over again, eyes sharpening. “Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Uh, nothing. It’s nothing.” Stiles looked sharply away. But now that he’d seen the other werewolf, all he could do was feel murderous eyes burning into his skin. Shakily, he set his drink down. “I need to use the bathroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, fine, everything’s fine. I’ll be right back, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott eyed him dubiously but nodded. Shoving himself up, Stiles crossed the dance floor in a slight stumble, determined not to meet the grey-green eyes that tracked him the entire way. He had no doubts when he started being followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tattoo burned slightly underneath his shirt. Energy thrummed through his blood. Stiles went straight past the bathrooms and ducked outside, into an empty alleyway and blissfully cool air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened again and closed behind him. Stiles turned; right into a hand that caught him by the throat, ramming him against the opposite wall. Stiles gasped, seeing stars. But he didn’t try to fight back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“W-woah, woah, growly-brows, nice to see you again too. You’ve been following me? Following us? Got a serious serial killer vibe going on right now—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles clamped his mouth closed, heartbeat picking up in pace. The werewolf narrowed his eyes, studying his face, and then clenched his jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Spark reeks. I can smell it from miles away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that’s not weird at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fingers around his throat tightened. Stiles grunted and smacked at the man’s wrist, trying to get him to loosen it without incurring any more wrath. But it didn’t work very well. “Hey, hey, let’s be gentle now. Don’t want to suffocate the token human, do we?”</span>
</p><p><span>“Who are</span> <span>you? Why are you here?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“In town?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth. Stiles winced away. “Right, right, dude. In town. Look, I don’t know what your problem with Sparks is, but I’m not a threat, I swear. I grew up here, I’m just visiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing with McCall?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing with… what? Come on, dude, he’s not dangerous! Why is that an issue anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>responsibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles started in confusion.. Magic flared underneath his skin and he searched the man for any sense of a lie. But instead, all he found were hints of… guilt? He stared. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not your problem”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, judging by our positions here, it’s some sort of problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man regarded him for a moment. Then, slowly, his fingers uncurled and he stepped back. Stiles massaged at his throat, feeling the bruises start to heal as his skin turned warm. He glared at the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what the hell do you want from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to stay away. Stay away from Scott McCall and stay away from Alan Deaton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know— wait. The killings. What do you know about them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just stay away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, growly-brows, I don’t know what you think you’re—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man suddenly shifted, nails becoming claws and fangs sliding over his teeth. Stiles stumbled back and cursed himself for it. Magic fills the air around them. A rune appeared, bright like fire. The werewolf retreated back too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Stiles said, smirking. “I can do stuff too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay away from McCall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can always make sure you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man raised an eyebrow, though a small smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Peter Parker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Har har har, Sourwolf. I’m serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost looked like there’s a spark of amusement in the man’s eyes. But Stiles didn’t think it was possible for the werewolf to be amused. Unless he was throttling someone, maybe. That might serve as an amusement. “A name for a name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Age before beauty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, the spark was gone. Dark brows drew together and the man turned away, starting down the alley. Stiles blinked and then curled himself, leaping forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles Stilinski!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf went stock-still. Stiles licked his lips, sitting back on his heels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my name. Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gazed at the werewolf’s back. The man was tensed and at least twice his size, so maybe Stiles should be a bit more careful about running his mouth in the future. Claws were scary. Claws could rip out throats. And he liked having a throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The word still spilled out. The man’s claws slid out again and then retracted once more. The wolf turned his head slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derek Hale”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then just like that, he was gone.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Stiles!” </p><p>Scott came running over the moment Stiles came into sight, drink abandoned and brown eyes wide. He searched him up and down as if attempting to check for injuries. “What happened? You never came back. Why do you smell worried?” </p><p>“I, uh, sorry. But I need to look up a name. Like, right now.”</p><p>“...Okay,” the boy pulled out his phone and passed it over. He still looked worried, eyes zeroing in on Stiles’s neck. “Are those bruises?”</p><p>“They’ll heal,” Stiles said, raking a hand through his hair. “Derek Hale, have you ever heard of him? Tall dude, kinda looming, has eyebrows for miles. It’s him, he’s the other werewolf.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He’s the other werewolf. Oh my god, my brain needs to shut up. Can we take this outside? I need to go back outside.”</p><p>Scott still looked completely confused, but he nodded and they left the way they came, into the cool air once more. Stiles took a deep breath and scrolled through the search results, finally freezing on the name and face that he was looking for.</p><p>Then he straightened. “Oh.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Derek Hale,” Stiles said. “Grew up in Beacon Hills, California, lost his entire family in a... a redacted incident.”</p><p>“So, he lives here. Why does he keep attacking us?”</p><p>Stiles chewed on his lower lip, too many thoughts running through his head for him to settle on one. Scott watched him expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, but Stiles didn’t have any. He just kept seeing Derek’s face. Remembering his threats.</p><p>“He wants me to stay away from you,” he said. Scott blinked.</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>“I don’t know why, but it was definitely a threat. He said you were… his responsibility. Whatever that’s supposed to mea—” He broke off suddenly. Scott shifted nervously.</p><p>“Stiles?”</p><p>“How did you turn?”</p><p>The boy went rigid. “What?”</p><p>“Scott, I need to know. What happened to make you turn? Was it here? In Beacon Hills? How long has it been?”</p><p>Scott averted his eyes for a moment and Stiles resisted the urge to shake the boy’s shoulders, letting him collect his bearings before brown eyes slowly slid back. “It was here, around two months ago. I’d been running early in the morning through the preserve and I got a little off-trail, but I—”</p><p>“Scott, were you attacked by something?”</p><p>“A wolf.”</p><p>“Not a real wolf, though.”</p><p>“It was something,” Scott said quietly. “I was working for Deaton a lot longer before I was bitten. He just helped me get through things.”</p><p>"But how did it happen exactly?"</p><p>“I came across what I thought was an old house. I don’t know, it looked like it’d been burned to the ground. I shouldn't have messed around, but then something came out of the trees faster than I could react. I was bitten, missed class that morning, got better, got <em> worse, </em>and then Deaton found me the night of my first shift.”</p><p>Stiles ran his teeth over his lower lip. Scott studied his face, looking a little nervous. </p><p>“Stiles? Do you know something?”</p><p>“Right now, buddy, I don’t think I know anything. Not enough, at least.”</p><p>“But we know who the other werewolf is.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Stiles said, glancing back down the alleyway. Despite the music of the club, the darkness seemed too quiet. Too cold. “But he knows who we are too.”</p><p>-</p><p>Scott called Deaton and got him updated while Stiles lounged on the couch, one arm slung across his face as he groaned. The week had ended too quickly and he still couldn’t believe he had to go to class tomorrow morning.</p><p>The last thing he'd expected coming home was that <em>school </em>awaited him.</p><p>He’d gone through a lot of terrible things in the past few years but he’d rather experience them all over again than face crowded halls and droning lectures once more. He’d never liked school. </p><p>Maybe it was because he’d been ahead of those his age, he was considered young and insolent by the rest of his classmates. Or maybe it was because he could never get along with any of them and either mouthed off to the point of getting punched or found himself alone in the overflowing cafeteria.</p><p>Stiles hadn’t looked back when he left Beacon Hills. It was due to what he left behind; nothing. Nothing other than sour, bleak memories.</p><p>Stiles huffed quietly to himself, wondering when his life had become such an angst-fest.</p><p>“Stiles?” Scott called, off the phone again. “You hungry?”</p><p>“I’m always hungry, Scotty-boy.”</p><p>“Pizza?”</p><p>“Stuffed crust!”</p><p>Scott nodded and dialed another number. Stiles rolled over so his face was pressed into the cushions and tried to block out the happening of the day. And the coming of tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted food and sleep. In that order, before the clock struck midnight and before the anxiety of it all crushed him like a bug. </p><p>Food, sleep.</p><p>And then <em> school. </em></p><p>~ ~ ~</p><p>“I can’t believe you signed me up for your classes. What are you majoring in again?”</p><p>Scott looked offended. “I’m undeclared.”</p><p>“In your second year?”</p><p>Brown eyes narrowed and Scott shot him a sideways look. Stiles only grinned cheekily and readjusted the backpack slung across his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. Don’t get your tail in a twist.”</p><p>“No dog jokes.”</p><p>“Not even one or two? Good boy? Bad dog?”</p><p>Scott picked up the pace and Stiles grinned at his back.</p><p>“Scotty, I was joking. Scotty!”</p><p>“Scotty?”</p><p>Stiles whirled around. Another student leaned against the opposite wall, half-eaten apple in hand, unimpressed brow raised. “How do you know McCall?”</p><p>“He’s, uh, my roommate.”</p><p>The boy’s eyes narrowed and he looked distasteful. “You’re a student here?”</p><p>“No, I’m just taking in the scenery. With a backpack. And a packed lunch, though I didn’t see that one coming when I woke up this morning. Scott is such a mom sometimes.”</p><p>The other boy didn’t look amused. He stepped forward and Stiles stumbled back until his back rammed against the wall. He licked his lips, cursing himself internally. Why did he always have to piss the violent looking people off?</p><p>“I don’t know who you think you are,” the boy said. “But McCall doesn’t need any distractions. We’ve got a lacrosse season to win this year and he needs to keep his head in the game. He’s already probably drugging himself to make first line.”</p><p>“Ah. So you’re a teammate?”</p><p>“Jackson.”</p><p>“Great name, really suits you. Trust me, dude, I don’t plan on being a distraction, and I don’t even really want to be here right now. Not that your proximity and overwhelming waves of cologne aren't totally fine… maybe a little much, though.”</p><p>Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”</p><p>“I’ve been asking that since day one, buddy.”</p><p>Jackson shook his head and stepped back. Stiles only smirked and the boy started away, shooting one last look over his shoulder before vanishing into the crowd. Stiles combed a hand through his hair and sighed.</p><p>“Nicely done, Stilinski. A plus for starting the day out with a bang.”</p><p>Scott must not have realized he hadn’t been following, because the boy was gone. Looking down at his schedule, Stiles tried to figure out where his first class was, and started following room numbers. The last thing he needed was to be late and make the morning even worse.</p><p>He should’ve knocked on wood.</p><p>Thankfully, when he stumbled into the classroom, there was an empty seat beside Scott and the auditorium was large enough no one really seemed to care he was making a ruckus.</p><p>Stiles collapsed at Scott’s side, who raised an eyebrow. “What happened to you?”</p><p>“I ran into a buddy of yours.”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Jackson.”</p><p>Scott winced. “Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah oh,” Stiles said. “He’s a real ray of sunshine, isn't he? I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he flashed out fangs too, at this point.”</p><p>“Oh god no. But I think he’s a little suspicious.”</p><p>“Also, I’m pretty sure he threatened my life if I dared sidetrack your attention from lacrosse.”</p><p>“Dude,” Scott blinked at him. Stiles raised a brow.</p><p>“Dude?”</p><p>“You should try out!”</p><p>Stiles stared at him for a long moment, letting the words sink in. Then he burst into laughter, quickly covering it up when the other students gave him dirty looks. “No <em> way.” </em></p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Just because I take the occasional head off a demon doesn’t mean I want to chase a ball around a field. Not a dog, remember?”</p><p>“Wait, you’ve beheaded a <em> demon?” </em></p><p>“It was one time and a lot grosser than you’d think. But that’s not the point. I’m not trying out for lacrosse! Period.”</p><p>“But we could use someone like you!”</p><p>“Someone like me?” Stiles made a point to look himself up and down. “Scotty-boy, I’m a combination of spastic and hyperactive tendencies. One hundred and forty seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. People tend not to need this.”</p><p>“That’s not—”</p><p>“Hey,” Stiles said, cutting him off. “I’m perfectly okay with what is Stiles Stilinski. Big mouth, the ability to talk himself into getting punched in the face, and sometimes creates the occasional spell that works out in his favor. I’m a real catch!”</p><p>Scott gave him an unimpressed look. Stiles shrugged. </p><p>“It’s all in the job title, remember?”</p><p>“You’re coming with me to practice.”</p><p>“To watch?”</p><p><em> “Stiles </em>.”</p><p>Stiles made a face and shifted backward, waving a hand through the air. “Shut up dude, the lecture is starting.”</p><p>Scott elbowed him, but Stiles barely felt it. He was too busy smothering a snort and trying to act like he was paying attention. He wasn’t even sure what this class was, to be honest. Something involving history.</p><p>Or maybe economics.</p><p>Scott didn’t say anything else about practice and the class was over in what felt like minutes. He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and turned; only to freeze. </p><p>Because in the front of the room, there was a sweep of strawberry blonde hair. Green eyes that caught the overhead light. Stiles’s mouth dropped open as his brain restarted once or twice.</p><p><em> Not again. </em>Really?</p><p>Scott followed his gaze to where Lydia stood and a playful grin tugged at his lips. “You know,” he said conversationally, “the girls always go for the jocks.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“It might be worth a shot. I’m just saying.”</p><p>Stiles managed to clamp his mouth shut again. He stumbled out the door, ignoring Scott’s call, and didn't get halfway down the hall before realizing he was going in the wrong direction. Turning on his heel, he caught the boy’s amused grin.</p><p>Stiles readjusted his backpack and stalked straight past him, mouth in a firm line. “I’ll come to watch. Consider me your official waterboy, Scotty boy.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“No excuses!”</p><p>Scott sighed, but followed anyway. Stiles grinned at that small victory. Maybe this way, he could get some more research done. Or at least get a up-close view on Scott and his current control over his beta form. Because the last thing Stiles needed was to be living with a werewolf without control. As much as he loved Scotty.</p><p>Stiles wasn’t a fan of becoming a werewolf’s late-night snack.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t actually know the rules of lacrosse. Scott did his best to explain but unsurprisingly, he was terrible at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But by the time they reached the field, Stiles had the faintest grasp that the ball goes in the opposite net and it’s perfectly okay to trample someone in order to get it there. Which seemed to be the gist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles thought that sounded about right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have werewolf muscles like Scott. He didn’t do sports. Stiles had been easily breakable fragile bone since he’d hit a growth spurt in elementary school and proceeded to lose all control over his limbs. And because of this, he was more than content to just watch Scott get trampled from the sidelines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he saw Lydia Martin sitting in the bleachers, tossing her hair over one shoulder and smiling primly as Jackson ran across the field. Stiles pressed his lips together, gazing beyond them, and spotted another girl sitting next to Lydia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One with her back to him, though Stiles could’ve sworn he recognized dark brown hair and pale skin. Stiles studied her for a moment and then the girl turned slightly and Stiles’s heart stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No way. No way in hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cora?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call echoed louder than he meant. Cora turned all the way around and thin lips turned into a smirk, the werewolf’s eyes flickering from brown to gold. Standing beside Stiles, Scott made a startled noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, an old... friend. No wait, enemy? Acquaintance. I dunno, something like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you know her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorta. Kinda. Not well enough to know what the hell she’s doing in Beacon Hills, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora stood, fingers tucked carelessly into her pockets. Her eyes changed back to normal again, smile looking a little too knowing as she leisurely approached. “Hey, Stilinski.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you— how are you— Cora, what the hell are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, gesturing around. “Class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, oh my god, here? Now? Wait, are you following me? How the hell did you even know I was in Beacon Hills?!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A good guess,” she said, white teeth shining. Cora completely skipped over the beginning of the question and turned to Scott, eyes narrowing as she studied him. “Who is this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy stared, wide-eyed. “Scott.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Werewolf?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott looked like a deer in headlights. Stiles resisted the urge to facepalm and growled out a curse, drawing her attention back. “Dammit, Cora, what are you doing here? How did you even know I left New York? And how did you know I came here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I followed the scent of your Spark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just look at you,” Cora said, ignoring his question once more. “Going to college, making friends. I thought Stiles Stilinski, ‘Spark for hire’, didn’t have a life beyond his work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I thought Cora the barista wasn’t a stalker!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been hoping that would elicit a response. Like why she had tracked him to another state. But Cora only smiled again and shrugged, studying Scott with a guarded expression one more time before turning back toward the bleachers. “Technicalities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles gaped after her. Scott doesn’t seem to be faring much better, his face startling pale. Though, it’s a different kind of shock than Stiles’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s also a werewol—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t even start, Scotty. I swear, if you fall for the scary werewolf, I’m going to pummel you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott gave him a flat look. “I would not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She'd pummel you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a sudden whistle and a shout, and they both turned to see the lacrosse coach coming across the field. He was a brown-haired man with a scrunched up face and a clipboard and he didn’t look very official, but seems to really favor the whistle around his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, ladies, gather up! Since we lost the final game last season, we’re gonna do some running today every last one of you is crying for your mommies. And then we're gonna run again!.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott glanced over and Stiles patted his shoulder before starting over toward the bleachers too. Both of the girls looked up as he approached and he felt his face go hot on instinct. He didn’t plan on getting near them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora had other ideas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stilinski!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could kill her. He could literally kill her. Scott felt Jackson’s suspicious gaze from the field as he approached the two, a knot forming in his throat once again. Lydia studied his face with an unreadable expression. Careful, calculated, and curious. Cora just smirked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, Cora.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>`“I thought you’d be playing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweaty dudes bowling each other over for a stupid ball? Not my idea of fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia tilted her head. Cora smirked wider.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you met Lydia, Stilinski? She’s in a few of my classes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, wishing he could drag Cora off of the field and give her a piece of his mind. Lydia continued to study his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have met before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I grew up here,” Stiles said, avoiding her gaze. “We were in the same class in high school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilted a brow. He convulsively swallowed, feeling that knot again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I left Beacon Hills a little while ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Stiles didn’t expect her to remember, so he was a little surprised that she just might. Raking a hand through his hair, he fixed Cora with a glare again. “It’s interesting. You two being in the same classes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles ground his teeth together. On the field, it was no question that Scott was one of the star players. He was fast, agile, and clearly had a few skills that the others didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least, it is to the practiced eye. Cora leaned in closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, puppy-eyes is a werewolf, huh? Is that what brought you out here? Or is it the killings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looked sharply over. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want, Cora?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just visiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffed. “Visiting a place you’ve never been to before. Because that makes total sense.”</span>
</p><p><span>“You don’t know anything about me, Stilinski. I haven’t known you that</span> <span>long.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Stiles could throttle her. But there was a flicker behind the werewolf’s eyes like that was exactly what she wanted, so Stiles just turned away instead, taking a deep breath. “Do you know what’s been killing people?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” he said, swiveling back toward her. “Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora rolled her eyes. “Of course, I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside her, Lydia’s eyes were fixed on the field. So she didn’t notice when Stiles took the girl’s hand and squeezed it tight. Power thrummed through his blood and his fingers tingled. “Tell me, Cora.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t recommend going all Sparky here, Stilinski. What do I get out of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles clenched his jaw. Making a deal with the supernatural was dangerous, he knew that. Making a deal with someone like Cora was even more so. But he had no control over his own curiosities, too little self-preservation, and dammit, Cora knew that too. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of the possible requests, that was the last one Stiles expected. He studied her face, but there was no hint of a lie behind those brown-gold eyes. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Consider it a personal interest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll consider it an untrustworthy werewolf trying to cause more trouble and say no thank you very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh really? And why is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I know what’s coming,” she said. “And you little werewolf friend? He’s going to get caught right in the middle of it. Do you really want another death on your conscience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles went rigid. He regretted ever confiding in her. Ever.“Don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora’s eyes flickered, reading his sudden reaction. “Do you really want to see someone else die, Stiles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying. Scott doesn’t deserve a fate like your mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was the final straw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>- -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them entered the clinic much later and Stiles stalked into the back room. Deaton was behind his desk, as usual, but his eyes went wide at seeing the newest member of their group.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a friend of mine,” Stiles said without preamble. “She’s going to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spill what you know, Cora.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton stood. “Cora?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf’s eyes flashed gold. Stiles tensed, looking from her to Deaton for a moment but before he could say a word, the girl stepped forward, eyes tracking over every inch of the room. They lingered on the bookshelves, studied the papers that lay open on Deaton’s desk, and then moved back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what’s killing people. Or rather, who.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton just stared. He looked oddly… torn and Stiles didn’t know what to do with that. Stiles just shook his head, deciding to focus on one thing at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She says it's another werewolf. An Alpha.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of the Hale’s. Peter Hale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton crossed his arms, regarding Cora with narrowed eyes. “That’s a serious accusation. Stiles, how much do you know about your friend here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a barista with stalker tendencies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should there be more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton’s lips thinned. He eyed Cora for a long moment before speaking again. “I trust you have some kind of proof?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s lost his mind,” Cora said. “Peter Hale. The other one, Derek, came here two months ago to kill him. After he killed Derek’s older sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles straightened, turning back toward her. “Wait, how do you know all of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My brother and I talk sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles stared. Behind him, Scott made a strange noise, but Stiles didn’t even acknowledge it. He just stared at her for a long moment, turned toward Deaton, and then swallowed hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter,” Cora said. “We haven’t spoken since my sister’s death but I know he’s here. And Scott? Scott reeks of his Alpha’s scent. My uncle. The same one who woke up from his comatose state when I was in highschool and went missing up until now. I don’t know what brought him back, but he’s the one killing people. I want to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles started, open-mouthed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s back in Beacon Hills,” Cora said. “There’s a reason. You want him dead? You need my help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we can trust you to turn on your own family member, Cora?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can trust me to kill the man who killed my sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Derek?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora clenched her jaw, before glancing briefly at Stiles. He still stared at her, wondering how he’d ever been so blind. It’s not like he’d ever needed to seek out a full name. And he supposed they shared the same eyes, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cora Hale. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She rolled her eyes and turned back to Deaton.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave Derek to me.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They made a plan. Peter was running wild through the preserve, someone had to take him down, and apparently ‘someone’ involved their little gang of werewolves and Spark that Stiles had never given the seal of approval to. But that was that and soon, they’d all piled into his newly fixed Roscoe and driven off to the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles really hadn’t wanted to bring Cora to the preserve, but she held him to his earlier deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agreed to help and you accepted. Deal’s a deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that’s what I was hoping for,” Stiles said sarcastically. “A werewolf that apparently I don’t even know, to stick to me like glue and refuse to let go. Don’t you have anything better to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora only offered a sinister smirk and suddenly, Stiles realized he didn’t want to know what better things she might have to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Scott said, still not looking recovered from earlier. “Your uncle bit me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl turned toward him. “Yeah, sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s my alpha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for much longer,” Cora said, turning back forward. Her eyes flashed gold and Stiles shivered, silently wondering what exactly she had planned. He didn’t really… know how to feel about this. Having a Hale only a few feet away, that is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed it wouldn’t have been a big deal two hours ago. But two hours ago, Stiles knew her as Cora the scary barista. Not Cora the scary barista with a scary eyebrowed brother. One who had threatened Stiles not a few days earlier and apparently decided to adopt Scott as his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles would fight Derek for that right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, your scary brother is coming, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora gave him an amused look and Stiles rolled his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Well, he should be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The dude scares the crap out of me,” Stiles said underneath his breath. “The last time we were a few feet apart, I’m pretty sure he tried to rip my throat out. Which, ten out of ten wouldn’t recommend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora smirked even wider and Stiles glared, turning back to his process of tripping through the forest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying, there’s a fine line between the a-okay werewolves and the scary ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought Stiles Stilinski, Spark for hire, wasn’t scared of anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what am I then? On that fine line.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shot her a dubious look. “Most of the time? In that terrifying place in between. You know, the one where you could probably rip someone's throat out, but then also make a mean double chocolate mocha.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora’s smirk took on a sharper edge. Stiles shivered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had finally gotten Roscoe out of the shop, so they were able to drive to the edge of the preserve this time. And to be honest, Stiles had to admit that this was probably one of his worse ideas. Though then again, he’d never been great at making good ones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tended to follow his gut and hope for the best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure it’s around here, Cora? Because as much as I love wandering around the forest near dark, there are probably more terrible things out here than Alpha werewolves and I’d rather not run into them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora’s eyes sharpened as she scented the air, ears pricking and head turning toward their approaching destination. She nodded. “It smells like blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that’s lovely. Good thing I left my morals at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>White fangs gleamed at him in what must be a laugh. Stiles shuddered and started forward again, leaves and sticks crunching underneath his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derek thinks Peter's been staying in the Hale house,” Cora said as they moved through the trees. Stile raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So where has Derek been staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a little curious. What is that a crime?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl just rolled her eyes and Stiles sighed. To be honest, he’d be surprised if all this didn’t get Peter’s attention. It was obvious the werewolf was unhinged and now here were three targets prime for the murdering. If he was murdering at random, that is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’s gut twisted as he realized they’d never really considered the </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if he wasn’t? </span>
  </em>
  <span>factor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too late for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles glanced over his shoulder to see the other two talking quietly back and forth. That made him shiver again. Stiles had come to realize that Cora being friendly made him uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shook that feeling off and gazed around the trees again, skin alight with nerves. Because this was totally how he saw his Monday night going, he told himself. Totally, totally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the trees opened up around them and the tattoo underneath his skin </span>
  <em>
    <span>burned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They'd definitely been going in the right direction. Stiles stood still for a moment as the other two stopped beside him, taking in the house that stood in the middle of the clearing, with dozens of small purple flowers growing around it. Stiles recognized them immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That's wolfsbane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott looked confused. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re not great for werewolves,” Cora said softly, picking her way careful toward the house. “But Derek would have been the one to plant them. Our sister is buried here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looked over sharply. Cora avoided his eyes, an unusual vulnerable expression on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing hard, he moved carefully into the clearing, following after her. He could tell where there was a different mound of dirt, marked by the purple flowers. Stiles picked his way around it, regarding the burnt-out Hale house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This wasn’t an accident, was it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora didn’t look at him. Stiles clenched his jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s none of your business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt like he was trespassing. “This is a place of death, I can feel it. I just don’t…” And then the other strange source that polluted the air hit him like a brick. “Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both Scott and Cora looked confused for a moment. But then Scott’s features were changing. Claws slid out, his shoulders hunched over, and he whirled around, snarling into the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn’t even have the chance to turn before he was driven to the ground, a body much heavier than his own shoving him into the dirt. </span>
  <span>Blue eyes glowed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles bit down hard on his tongue and cursed internally. “Me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles!” Scott started forward, but a claw against his neck made him freeze. Derek turns his head, regarding his sister flatly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell me you were bringing them along, Cora.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously, Derek? What was I supposed to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bring these two idiots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fury radiated off the werewolf in waves. Stiles could feel it seeping through the air, tainting the night around them, and he knew why. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Cora for only a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is the place your family died, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes snapped back, glowing angrily. Stiles winced, feeling a drop of blood slide down his neck as the skin was broken. But he didn’t back down. “Look, man, we’re here to help with Peter. You don’t have many allies right now, so I’d suggest you take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You suggest?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Suggest something to me one more time, Spark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… please get off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay," Stiles said. "That’s a little rude. But look, dude, I know why you’re doing this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles looked up defiantly. “Peter deserves to die for killing your sister. And yeah, Cora told us everything. But seriously, dude, we just want to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora straightened. Derek’s face went through a turmoil of different emotions and then he baring his teeth again, leaning closer. “You think we need your help to kill my uncle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’d be smarter than taking on an Alpha werewolf yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not scared of Peter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? I’ve seen an Alpha in action, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You should be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know enough.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derek,” Cora said in a hiss, stepping forward. Derek’s attention snapped to her and his entire body tensed. But the girl only raised her jaw, holding her brother’s gaze, and Scott stepped forward too, eyes far too innocent to be fair. Derek relaxed again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sat still, waiting. But Derek didn’t move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you don’t want our help,” Stiles said, drawing the man’s attention back. “But are you really willing to risk your sister’s life? One’s already gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claws dug deeper into his neck. Stiles arched his back up and bit back a noise of pain, seeing Scott tense even more. Derek’s eyes glowed brighter. “Stop talking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to see her hurt? Let us help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Idly, Stiles wondered if he had a death wish. Because the words kept coming out and he could tell they were doing nothing to appease Derek’s temper. The man’s expression was more than murderous now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How ironic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you to stay away," Derek growled. "I told you to stop looking into things, stop going after all of this. Are you stupid, deaf, or both?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More like curiously stunted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek growled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were just trying to figure out what’s going on,” Scott said, jumping forward. Derek turned his snarling expression toward him and the boy stilled, but didn't back down. “People are dying and somehow, it’s all connected to the Hales.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. It’s Hale business, not yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s entirely our business!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora’s eyes tracked between them. She hadn't said another word but she was impossibly tense. Stiles didn’t move, deciding he liked he’s throat remaining intact. And then finally, to Stiles's slight surprise, Derek shoved himself up. His claws retracted as he stood, a dark expression on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The two of you leave. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles scrambled to his feet. Scott wavered, looking torn for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out,” Derek repeated. “Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes snapped back to him but Stiles ignored them, brushing leaves off his sweatshirt before glaring back. “Terribly sorry, growly-brows, but we’re not turning away from this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I rip out your spine, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that would be totally uncalled for. Why don’t you just accept our help and then we can all be besties?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that's not how things </span>
  <em>
    <span>work, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Spark!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tone in his voice was suddenly broken. Derek’s chest rose and fell and he swore, turning his face away for a moment. When he looked back, his expression was impassive again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter is our problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles opened his mouth but before he could say a word, there was a crack in the trees. Derek swung around and shifted, eyes glowing blue. Copying the man, Scott’s eyes turned to liquid gold and his fangs fell over his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the change in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like a shadow creeping through his veins. All the warmth drained from the air and the steady thrum of magic dropped to a dull whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it wasn’t the presence of an Alpha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A figure came out of the darkness. One wearing robes of black with a shrouded face. Stiles retreated a step toward Derek, his tattoo flaring. There was something about the figure; something that made his skin itch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek roared a sudden challenge and grabbed Stiles’s arm, yanking him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Run!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles stumbled, staring at the man in shock. The werewolf bared his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out of here, Stiles!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles couldn’t fight the order in Derek’s voice. Turning on his heel, he pushed Scott and Cora forward. The girl swore, trying to move after her brother, but Stiles grabbed her arm and didn’t let go. They started into the trees the way they’d come in. And a loud humming filled the air around them. A chanting chorus of voices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora finally yanked away, racing at the front with Scott close on her heels. Stiles can’t see through the trees, but a sudden howl pierced the air. One full of rage and pain, and he instantly knew it’s Derek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The very sound nearly made him turn around and race back, but then Scott grabbed his arm tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles! Stiles, come on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still hesitated for a moment. Then the howl cut off and a dead silence fell over the night. Scott shouted his name again, pulling harder. Cora looked like she was on the verge of breaking into tears, eyes wide and full of terror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning, Stiles fled toward his car. The other two got inside first and Stiles Yanke himself in too, shoving his key into the ignition. Still, despite everything, he hesitated for a moment and glanced back out at the trees. They were dark and silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, come on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snapping back to reality, he didn’t need to be told twice. Stiles hit the reverse and momentarily, the headlights reflected off the trees. And then there was the same figure. Wearing all black, with a horribly scarred face and no hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something deep and dark grabbed at Stiles’s heart as he stared and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yanked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He spun the steering wheel, gears squealing in protest, and then they were flying down the road. Leaving the dark trees behind. Leaving the sound of chorusing hums and the infecting shadows all at their backs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott looked over his shoulder. His eyes were wide and his chest rose and fell in heaves. “What the hell was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora was unusually silent. Stiles looked back at her in the rearview mirror. “Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicked up. This time, they were a pale green. Startled, shocked, and confused. Cora shook her head. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Cora, your brother is going to be—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he’s dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And silence fell over the car.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Scott left early to ‘meet someone’ the next morning and Stiles stayed curled up on the couch, still reeling from the previous night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still feeling blows from the moment they’d returned back to the apartment and Cora had left in a flurry of golden eyes and sharp teeth. Stiles hadn’t known what else to say, how else to comfort her. Because if she really just had lost her brother…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Stiles had never been good at offering any comfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning, Stiles reached blindly for his Adderall, taking a few pills dry before tipping his head back against the edge of the couch again. His mind was spinning too fast. There was too much going on in his head. Every time he thought things were starting to settle down, Stiles felt like he was losing control all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had no idea what the hell they’d just seen in the preserve. Stiles had sensed the change in the air— the </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic— </span>
  </em>
  <span>but that didn’t offer them anything helpful. Because the killings that had been occurring throughout Beacon Hills had been done by an Alpha, not by anything magical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing made sense anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless somehow, they were completely wrong about Peter. Or maybe he had back-up that none of them knew about. Which all circled back around to the burning question of </span>
  <em>
    <span>why. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Why go to all that trouble? Why even bother at all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek might have been more help if he really had been spending so much more time in Beacon Hills that his sister. But Stiles kept being struck by the sinking realization over and over again that the werewolf probably wasn’t around to answer questions anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that made him feel even worse. Because despite everything, Derek had shoved him out of harm's way. Demanded they leave. He’d faced whatever the hell had been out in the preserve alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d told them to run and then hadn’t run himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning again, Stiles tried to shut off his brain. He should’ve gone with Scott- wherever the hell he had disappeared off to. All Stiles remembered was the boy’s phone going off, a giddy expression crossing his face, and then Scott had taken off with the words ‘gotta meet a friend’ echoing through the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t need to be able to hear his heartbeats to know that some part of that sentence was a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He covered his face with his hands, muffling another noise. He could go to the clinic, but he had no idea where to start research-wise. And he imagined that anything he attempted to do right now would just bring up more questions than answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles moaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go back to Beacon Hills, Stiles, it’ll be fun. Get involved with a bunch of murders, Stiles, it’ll be exciting. It’s not like there’s a psychotic Alpha werewolf and a terrifying black-robed who-knows-what running around that'll totally muck things up. Oh, no, of course not. Stupid supernatural assholes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Stiles knew why he’d really come. Or at least, why he had in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother had died when he was eleven years old. Well… she hadn’t died. She’d been killed. A murder just like the ones that were happening now; throat ripped out and body marred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles had been the one to find her. Out in the woods, a place she never should have been. Stiles remembered the sudden tug on his gut; the one that had pulled him out into the woods in nothing but his pjs. He hadn’t slept right for weeks— months— years afterward. He still sometimes woke up at night screaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything had changed after that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’s dad started drinking more. Stiles got into more fights. His spark came out full-fledged and he’d nearly gotten himself caught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaton had probably saved Stiles from himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had first approached him after a mysterious fire in the woods; one that occurred one year after his mother’s death. The man had come to him with questions of his past. Of his present. About what things Stiles knew about the Spark underneath his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles remembered it all too well. Sometimes, he wished he didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had to be a reason it was all happening again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he grabbed his laptop and flipped it open, clicking to the folder of documents he’d been compiling over the past few years. Everything from every supernatural creature he’d ever encounter to the ones he’d heard of, to the ones that might not even exist. There were over fifteen documents with a couple hundred pages in each.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own compiling of bestiaries. Stiles closed his eyes, groaning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was going to be a long morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he debated calling his dad. He was the Sheriff, after all, and he could probably offer at least something to help. But asking for that would involve revealing why exactly he needed it. And Stiles wasn’t willing to do that now— or probably ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Stiles could make any decisions, there was a knock on his door. Heavy and hard, followed by a faint thud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles startled so hard he nearly rolled off the couch. He sat stock-still and then slowly climbed to his feet, eyeing the apartment door suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence stretched on. Creeping over, Stiles moved to his tiptoes and peered through the peephole. But there was nothing he could see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence was his answer. Stiles wrapped his fingers around the knob and twisted, sparkes dancing over the tips of his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he yanked the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t expect Derek to spill forward, collapsing to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’s first reaction was to stumble back, heart leaping into his throat. He nearly fell over his own feet trying to scramble away from the limp werewolf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he saw the wounds. And the blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles stumbled forward, dropping to his knees at the man’s side and touching his shoulder cautiously. It looked like Derek had gotten into a fight with a mountain lion and lost. Badly. Fighting the urge to blurt out something unhelpful, Stiles tried to raise the man’s head, searching his pale face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derek? Hey, growly-brows! Look at me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark eyelashes fluttered. Grey-green eyes slowly opened and gazed at him and Stiles’s heart stuttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Alphas.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes rolled back again. Stiles’s heart pounded against his chest and he moved carefully back before shoving himself up. “Okay, okay, hold up, Sourwolf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rummaged through the cabinets until he found a cloth, wetting it, and grabbed a few bandages. They were thin but there was nothing else, so Stiles figured they would have to do. Stumbling back over, he dropped to his knees again. Derek’s breaths were shallow and his eyes moved back and forth underneath his eyelids. Carefully, Stiles lifted the lower part of his shirt up to study the wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breaths caught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a reason the man wasn’t healing. Stiles could recognize the gashes of an Alpha from anywhere and there was more than one gash, all angry red. This was no mountain lion attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t one from magic either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles had healed his own wounds before, but never anyone else's. And never ones this bad. He swallowed hard, searching them over, and tried not to concentrate on Derek’s gasping breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he messed this up, Derek might as well be dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But stubbornly, Stiles placed his palms over the open wounds. Derek flinched back, making a whimpering noise at the back of his throat, and Stiles winced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy now, Sourwolf. I’m gonna try and fix this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t even know if the werewolf could hear him. But talking made Stiles feel better, so he continued to babble, closing his eyes and focusing on the stuttering heartbeat beneath his skin. Stiles clenched his jaw hard and then swallowed hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t rip my throat out or anything if this goes wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles felt it like a hand wrapping around his heart. When he opened his eyes again, there were black lines moving from Derek’s open wounds and crawling up his arms. Stiles suddenly felt a little nauseous and a lot faint, and he ground his teeth together, forcing himself not to yank away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf made a pained noise again. Underneath his shirt, Stiles’s tattoo flared and the light beneath his palms burned brighter. The world spun. He could feel energy leaking out of him like a lifeforce that he had no control over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cursed underneath his breath and Derek shifted, groaning a little. Then his entire body convulsed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes flew open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Stiles was flipped onto his back, claws pressed against his neck. He startled, the magic draining from his blood, and threw up his hands. Derek’s eyes glowed blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah, dude! Savaging your literal rescuer is generally considered uncalled for!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf’s grip wavered. Slowly, the confusion anger ebbed from his gaze and Derek stared for a moment before shoving off and collapsing to the side with a grunt. The man pressed a hand to his torso, where a few of the gashes were still open, and drew his hand back bloody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the worst of it was gone, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, other than save your life? Did it with style. A little gratitude would be nice, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek glared at him and Stiles rolled his eyes, pushing himself up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, don’t say thank you. Next time you show up at my door looking like a corpse, I’ll let you bleed out on the carpet. Or better yet, I’ll just leave you out in the hall. The smell of blood is going to haunt this apartment for weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you ever shut up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles grabbed the bandages, pulling a long strip off so it made a loud noise. Derek winced and he smirked. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need bandages.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those wounds are Alpha inflicted, genius. You best know your furry little werewolf ass isn’t going to be healing them anytime soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek glared at him. But Stiles feared the man a little less after seeing him nearly dead on the floor. He just rolled his eyes again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna let me patch you up? Or are we gonna keep playing this game of feral dog sitting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give them to me. I can do it myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek just gave him a flat look, eyebrows raised. Stiles groaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever, fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have the energy to argue with the man, shoving the bandages and a wet cloth over. The faster Derek had taped himself back together, the faster they could start talking about whatever the hell attacked him, hopefully. Because if it was only Peter… well, that was a lot of damage for one man. Even one psychotic man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek didn’t make any noise as he worked to wrap the white gauze around his side. Stiles watched him for a moment before the silence became too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know what attacked us back in the preserve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, then. Was it Peter that attacked you? Did he do all of that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles didn’t even get a grunt of confirmation. Nervously, he licked his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Either you start talking, or I’m going to make you start talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, grey-green eyes snapped up. Derek looked murderous for a moment, but then something in his expression changed. He lowered his gaze to his injuries again with a swallow. “Peter’s not alone. It’s… something else. An Alpha pack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. But there was more than one pair of red eyes in the trees and for some reason, they left me alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And did you catch sight of the other thing? The… hell, I don’t know what it was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, Derek shook his head. Stiles swallowed hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So maybe they were in the same spot as the magic-user for a reason. Maybe it’s all connected. But there has to be a reason they left you alive— unless Peter didn’t want you dead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek gave him an </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘are you stupid look’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Stiles bit back a sharp retort. The werewolf just shook his ehad. “He killed Laura.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To steal her Alpha spark, right? Well, you don’t have one of those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek’s face tightened. “No. I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Stiles said after a long moment had passed. Derek glanced up, giving him a hard look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because no one deserves to lose family. Not your sister. Not even a psychotic uncle. Because he might as well be gone now. You realize that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek paused his self-bandaging and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he didn’t look very scary anymore. Just young and broken and in pain. “I know. And I’ll kill him for what he’s done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And take the Alpha power?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles swallowed hard. He didn’t really have the words to answer that and he didn't want to apologize again. Because he knew how apologies sounded. They didn’t bring back the dead. And Stiles knew how empty a half-hearted 'I'm sorry'</span>
  <span> could be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead, he changed the subject. “Why do you care about protecting Scott?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My uncle gave him the bite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but that makes him your uncle’s problem. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Scotty. But technicalities, dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call me dude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You totally like Scott, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to keep him alive. There’s a difference.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles smirked. Derek glared at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, huh. You totally care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does this make us even now? You saved our lives out in the preserve and I saved yours here. Can we finally move past the whole abusing my car and threatening my life thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek rolled his eyes. “I didn’t threaten your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You nearly ripped my shoulders from their sockets when we first met!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s really not as comforting as you seem to think it is. Honestly, dude, I’d be miffed if I didn’t totally have the upper hand right now for basically bringing you back from the dead. Which, by the way, you still haven’t said ‘thank you’ for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A- wait, what? Say that again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorted. “Fine. But does that mean we’ll have your help against all of this? And by that I mean you’ll let us help with all of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek studied him for a long moment, slowly tying off the last free line of his bandages. His eyes tracked around the apartment, taking in Stiles’s messy bed on the couch, the empty take-out containers on the table, and the pile of Scott’s stinky lacrosse clothes. Then he shrugged. “Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your one-word answers kind of suck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek only smirked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Stiles said, pushing himself up. “Up and at 'em then, big guy. We’re going to the vet’s clinic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it was Stiles’s turn to smirk. “We’re gonna get your shots, growly-brows. I trust you know what those are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek snarled. Quickly, Stiles threw up his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just kidding! But… do you trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Well, that’s fine. We’re going anyways!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek scowled even more.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have the faintest idea where this is going, which is pretty usual for my fics. But of course, I'd love to hear what you guys think! I know I say I'm going to stop starting works... but my self-control is nonexistent. So here we are? I hope you're all doing well &lt;3</p><p>Come hang with me on Tumblr?</p><p>  <a href="https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/">the dumpster</a></p><p>Or on my favorite Sterek discord!</p><p>  <a href="https://discord.gg/RTsjye5">not a dumpster</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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